


Stumble

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Brad POV, Canon Era, Hand Jobs, M/M, Military Homophobia, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trombley turned to Brad himself. "Sergeant, Walt ran into a couple RCT-1 faggots fucking behind a berm last night." He sounded personally offended about that fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumble

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction ergo it never happened.
> 
> Set on April 7th, when they're camped on the outskirts of Baghdad, so this technically takes place during Part 6, "Stay Frosty." Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/337013.html).

"That ain't a good sign," Poke said as they walked back from the TL meeting. Brad followed his gaze and found Walt, Gabe, Trombley, and Lilley huddled next to 2-1 Bravo's Humvee. 

"What's the matter, Poke, don't trust your babies?"

"Not when your Semper Fucking Psycho goes all caveman on my impressionable youth. Now I'll have to spend the rest of the night unfucking their minds from whatever bullshit Trombley's been talking."

"Prejudging the situation? Poke, I'm disappointed in you," Brad drawled as they approached the foursome. "Aren't you the one always railing against prejudice?"

"Some prejudice is _warranted_ , dog."

Trombley nudged Walt. "Here, c'mon, tell the Sergeant what you saw." he said.

"Naw, man, it ain't a big—"

Trombley turned to Brad himself. "Sergeant, Walt ran into a couple RCT-1 faggots fucking behind a berm last night." He sounded personally offended about that fact.

"James, c'mon, man. Who the fuck cares?" Walt said, for once almost annoyed.

"I care! I don't want to hear about no fucking faggots," Trombley spat back.

"Maybe you shouldn't listen," Gabe suggested.

"Yeah, brah, we could sure find some earplugs for them sensitive ears of yours," Lilley said with a grin.

Poke chuckled under his breath. A quick glance over showed Brad that he'd settled in to watch. He gestured to the group and grinned at Brad. "Lead on, Team Leader."

"You're no goddamn help, you know that?"

"I defer to my wise leadership," Poke snarked back. He was _enjoying_ this. Fucker.

Trombley couldn't understand why they weren't all agreeing with him. "What the fuck?" he spluttered. "Am I the only—"

"Trombley, shut the fuck up," Brad said tightly. Thankfully, he did.

Now Brad had four kids looking at him for guidance and Poke was still goddamn smirking. He didn't need this shit today.

"They gotta learn it sometime," Poke said practically, like that was his way of helping.

"Yes, thank you for that brilliant insight." Brad turned to the group and eyed them steadily. "Gentlemen, I am about to impart some sterling wisdom, so you'd do well to remember this moment."

"Damn, and I forgot my pen," Poke muttered as he patted his pockets.

"Poke, quit molesting yourself. We know you're hard-up, but that's just disturbing." Poke grinned and produced a cigar, which he promptly bit and waggled at Brad. Double fucker. There would be hell to pay, Brad would make sure.

"You were saying, Sergeant?" Gabe asked. 

"We are in a war zone. Until it fucks up a mission, what people do with their dicks is not your fucking concern."

"What?! Since when?" Trombley asked, incensed.

"Since for-fucking-ever," Poke said. "Law of the jungle, dog. Ain't your place to question."

"The Uniform Code of Military Justice says—"

Brad cut off the bleating again. "Trombley, I know what the goddamn regs say. I'm telling you how it is in the real world. You can be all by-the-book at Pendleton but out here, in theater? Some of the rules get bent."

"Some Marines, too," Poke quipped.

"So wait, does that mean everyone goes gay and it's cool?" Lilley asked.

"Lilley, you gotta stop hearin' what you want to hear, man. What he's saying is that you police your own dick and let everyone else do the same," Poke said, waving his cigar expansively.

Brad nodded. "That's right. And when other people don't do the same, the senior NCOs will take care of it. Look after yourself and your team and don't seek out that kind of trouble."

"So the Marine Corps turns into a bunch of faggots and fairies and you're just fine with that?" Trombley huffed.

"Dude, are you gettin' turned on or something? 'Cause you're taking this awful personal," Gabe said. 

"Fuck you!" Trombley lunged at him, but Walt grabbed his arms and held him back.

"Trombley, stop being such a _dick_ ," Walt said, Trombley struggling against his hold.

Poke sat back on his heels, grinning around his cigar. Brad hated everyone in the _world_.

"Trombley, quit acting like a prissy Coast Guard bitch. Lilley, I don't want to see that red light come on," Brad warned.

Lilley guiltily lowered his camera with a muttered, "Yes, Sergeant."

Trombley jerked from Walt's hold. He was breathing hard, his face flushed. "It's not right, Sergeant."

Brad glared. Someone save him from youthful idealism. Or in this case, youthful intolerance. 

Trying a different tack, he turned to Walt: "Walt, do you know who it was?"

Walt blinked at him, wide-eyed. "No."

"Did you see exactly what they were doing?"

Walt looked down, his cheeks reddening. Goddamn bunch of innocent pups, these were. "Not really. Beyond, you know—" His hand-wave was meant to illustrate something, Brad was sure, but he knew better than to go too far down that road.

"They see you?"

Walt's head snapped up. " _Fuck,_ no." Like he was offended...as any good recon Marine would be. Brad's lips twitched and he acknowledged it with a half-nod.

Brad turned back to Trombley. "What would you like us to do? Walk up to Chaos and tell him Walt _maybe_ saw a couple guys doing something in the dark, but he doesn't know who it was or what they were doing?"

"Better than nothin,'" Trombley insisted.

"Fuck that. Go dig a fucking hole," Brad said, done with this shit.

"What? Now I'm being punished because I—"

"Trombley, look at my face," Brad said coldly.

Trombley snapped his mouth shut, huffily picked up his gun, and was gone the next instant. Apparently he did value his life.

Brad closed his eyes and breathed deep. "Ahh, blissful silence."

Poke's snickering somewhat ruined the effect.

***

"Dude, what crawled up Trombley's ass?" Ray asked. Ray was looking over his shoulder at where Trombley was still digging, not talking to anyone. Ray glanced at Brad when Brad didn't answer.

Brad inclined his head to his right, then said, "Nothing."

"Fine," Ray said, only slightly petulant. "Oh, shit, Reporter, I forgot to tell you. When I walked by team two's Humvee, Chaffin had that picture of your girlfriend."

"Chaffin did?" Wright asked, getting ready to hop out.

"Yep. Better go find him before he whores her out to H&S."

Wright frowned at the thought, then was gone with a muttered, "Thanks."

"You deceitful motherfucker," Brad said with a half-smile.

"Whatever, dude. You know you wanted yourself some girltalk. Now what the fuck's going on?"

"Walt stumbled over a couple RCT-1 grunts goin' at it behind a berm last night."

Ray brightened. This kinda shit made his day. "And Trombley shot 'em?"

"He wishes. Walt made the eminently wise decision of telling Trombley, Lilley, and Gabe, so I had to enlighten them as to the realities of assignations in the field."

Ray threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, man, I wish I could have seen that. I'm surprised he didn't pull out a gun and shoot _you_."

Brad sent him a look.

"What? Psycho's got a fuckin' death wish and you know it."

"Just try to keep it down around Rolling Stone. Godfather instituting battalion-wide anal-probes is the last thing I need."

"Not to mention just a little gay."

Walt walked up, carrying more of the new MREs. Ray tipped his head back to regard him. "Hey, Walt. Heard you learned about the facts of life today. Brad says I can't clue the reporter in, which is a fuckin' shame 'cause you stand at, like, the perfect blowjob-accessible height."

"Not for you, you fucking whiskey tango, inbred midget," Brad said. He turned to address Walt: "He's joking."

"Am I _really_?" Ray said mischievously. God, he was gonna be unbearable, Brad just knew it. No way would Rolling Stone be fooled.

Walt ignored Ray and just shrugged. "Yeah, I figured. It's all good." 

***

Walt and Brad sat alone by the Humvee, cleaning weapons. Rolling Stone and Chaffin had already returned, bitched, and gone, so Ray was off regaling someone else, invariably. Trombley was avoiding everyone, so that meant he and Walt were alone. As good a time as any, Brad figured. "Walt, about the thing earlier—"

Before he could go on, he heard someone approach from behind. Brad leaned forward and looked up...and met the LT's amused smile. Oh, fucking great.

"'Gents," Nate greeted, circling around to rest on one knee. Like he planned to stay and chat.

Gee, what could _this_ be about?

"Hey, LT," Walt greeted. Brad nodded his own greeting and watched Nate expectantly.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Scuttlebutt is that someone might've stumbled across some suspect behavior last night."

"Oh, is that what the knitting circle has come up with?" Brad asked.

"Frankly, it wouldn't surprise me. Stick 18,000 Marines together, make them wait to join in on the final assault, and some shit's bound to happen. I am assured of this," he said, still amused. "I'm just here to say, unofficially, let's not stir up any more shit than absolutely necessary."

"Roger that, sir," Brad said solemnly. "I would never have thought of it on my own."

Nate flashed a quick grin, then ambled away. Brad appreciated the view for a moment, then looked over at Walt.

Walt determinedly cleaned his SAW, head down.

He didn't want to talk about it? Fine with Brad. Nate had said it all, anyway. Brad bent back over his rifle and didn't mention it again.

***

"Fuck, yes," Brad groaned, coming into Nate's fist, pleasure tingling down his spine. Nate continued to stroke him softly, nuzzling at his mouth, until Brad hissed and pulled back. Nate didn't let him go. 

Nate panted against him, unselfconsciously breathless. Brad tried to even out his own breathing, though he knew it wasn't nearly as controlled as he'd like it to be.

After a few moments reveling in goodwill toward the universe, Nate shifted. He cleaned them both up with sure, practiced moves, the used baby wipe tucked away to be disposed of somewhere discreet. 

Brad took in his efficiency and didn't bother to hide his amusement. Nate pressed his lips together and leaned back into him. "Shut up."

"I didn't say a word. But you are quite dexterous, sir."

"You appreciated my dexterity a couple minutes ago."

"I appreciate it now."

Nate smiled his sated smile and leaned in for a kiss. Brad opened his mouth and it got a bit more...involved after that.

Nate pulled back and just breathed against him. "Know what I don't get?" he asked after a moment.

"Hmm?" The hazy lassitude had already set in and Brad was content just to linger a moment in the dark, Nate solid by his side.

"RCT-1's bunked down to the southeast of here, practically on the opposite side of the camp. How'd Walt stumble over a couple of their grunts over on our lines? How'd no one else notice?"

Brad frowned as Nate kick-started his mind into actually analyzing this shit. "You think he's making it up?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I mean, why would he? Walt seems more embarrassed than—" Nate stopped abruptly.

"What?"

"Where'd he say he saw them, again?"

"Wasn't really specific. Last night behind a berm. He was on watch over near—" Brad abruptly stopped, then shut his eyes as realization dawned. "Aw, fuck."

Nate was thinking along the same lines. "Over near where we—"

"Possibly," Brad said. "Fuck, _probably_." He leaned his head back against whatever this burned out shack had once been.

Nate was quiet for a moment, then chuckled, low and appreciative. 

Brad looked at him askance. "What's funny?"

"C'mon, Walt stumbles over us and instead of running to Command or shooting our asses, he makes up a story about RCT-1 and tells Trombley, who's guaranteed to blow his stack. So Walt didn't have to approach anyone about it. That's some impressive strategy."

Brad mulled that thought. "You think this is something I need to talk him through?"

Nate shrugged. "Sounds like you already did, back when you thought it was RCT-1."

"I told him to police his own dick and let the senior NCO's handle anyone else not policing theirs."

Nate chuckled again. "That what you're doing, Sergeant? Policing your own dick?"

"Maybe yours. Sir," he added, hand squeezing said dick in reminder. He felt Nate twitch, even through his camo.

Nate hissed as his eyes drifted shut. "And a fine job you do, at that."

Brad set up a lazy rhythm, watching Nate's face keenly. He was so expressive and didn't even know it. "Have to be more careful," Brad muttered. He sped his strokes at the thought, Nate's hips moving with him.

"Uh-huh," he said, agreeing without knowing what he was agreeing to.

"We probably shouldn't even be doing this now," Brad said. Then stopped his hand.

Nate's fingers gripped Brad's arms. He pinned Brad with a glare. "Strategize later. Right now, I believe you have some policing to do." He bit at Brad's bottom lip, sharp pain running in a hot line straight to Brad's cock.

Brad opened his mouth and sank into Nate, unable to resist. Pure temptation, that was his LT. They'd figure out a plan later. 

Really.

***

Fin. Comments are adored.


End file.
